Then you'll Remember Me
by TheHop
Summary: They say that war turns us into heroes or cowards, we only have to choose which we are when the time comes. Sherlock doesn't set much stock by what other people say. For him, it was always John Watson that made him what he was. War was just an unfortunate circumstance.
1. Prologue

**AN: Hallo :) Profuse apologies about my other Sherlock story, I am trying to finish it but I've hit something of a wall... For now I offer you this. Its something I've been toying with for a while. **

**Trigger warning: To be safe I'm gonna say that this story could include anything that you would associate with war, including death. It is possible that things will get quite grim.**

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**PROLOGUE**

**1****st**** July, 1916, Somme River, France**

It's all rather unfair when it comes down to it.

When you know what is coming and that you can't stop it.

There is fear first. The atmosphere is full of it. But for them it passes. They are not afraid, not really.

There is sadness. They are thinking about another life, a life that wasn't lived in cramped and muddy holes or under threat of things that wiz and bang. It's alright though. They won't shed any tears for that life. They're together for now so its okay. It's just a shame…

But then there is anger, of course. And the anger can be battered down, it can't be overlooked or justified because it's just too unfair.

Not because of the fear or the sadness. They would have taken the fear and sadness, they'd have taken the mud and cramped little holes. They would have taken the things that rattle and the bangs that drag you out of warm safe sleep. They'd have taken anything for just a little more _time._

But then, would any amount of time have been enough, really?

They don't talk because there's nothing left to say now. Besides, they were never ones for talking much anyway. Even if they wanted to, they don't have the words. They don't have a way to say them.

So, for a time, they just exist. They sit and they drink tea and breathe the same air.

They wait and they savour the time they have, and they try to forget for a little while just how unfair it is.


	2. Chapter 1

**5****th**** October 1914, Ashington, Northumberland**

John hummed absent-mindedly as he straightened his collar in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Behind him, the small kitchen glowed in the soft morning light.

Everything was ready, his papers on the table next to the bread board, his kit bag waiting patiently by the door. The days had gone surprisingly fast since he'd received them. A haze of packing, of sharing drinks with the lads… and Harry, of course. It hadn't felt like he was holding onto anything, but now it was here.

He was leaving…

"John?"

He jumped. He'd been so caught up in his thoughts he hadn't even noticed her slip in. She was still wearing her nightdress, her hair mussed from a sleepless night. She looked so small and vulnerable for a moment, standing barefoot on the cold flagstone floor that it was almost easy to forget she was two years his senior. She still looked like a frightened fourteen year old, holding him tight while their father clattered around downstairs. The moment passed quickly.

"Morning" he smiled. She returned it, standing up straighter and running a hand through her tangled curls.

"Well, don't you look handsome in that uniform?" she crossed the table and straightened the collar he'd been examining for the last minute. "You best mind yourself going around like that, girls will be all over you!"

She brushed her fingers though his smartly combed fringe. She'd always been taller than him. He'd always held a secret hope that he'd have a sudden growth spurt but it never came, even now, nearly thirty, his big sister trumped him by a good two inches. He laughed. He didn't mind so much. Not today. Nor did he mind letting her play mother hen for bit.

"What time have you got to be off?"

"Trucks leave at seven" Her eyes flocked to the clock on the mantle that already read ten to and he felt a twinge of guilt. "You can still walk down with me some of the way…"

She opened and closed her mouth a few times. Then looked back at him and shook her head, smiling again.

"No, that's alright." She laughed "Feels like your first day of school all over again"

He coughed awkwardly.

"Have you got everything you need?" it was an attempt at nonchalance, but he could see her throat contract with the effort of keeping the lump that must have settled in it at bay. And suddenly it really hit him.

She was going to miss him.

And he was going to miss her...

Not quite trusting himself to answer vocally all of a sudden he settled for a nod.

Partially subconsciously perhaps, she pressed a hand to his cheek. Then, realising what she was doing, she stiffed and ran her hand through her hair again instead.

"Want me to make you a sandwich?" she asked overly brightly.

"Harry-"

"Cheese alright?" she turned away, picked up the bread knife. Her hand trembled. She ignored it and reached for the bread. "I know you prefer jam, you're such a child" she teased, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Harry" he repeated.

"I'm sorry. We don't have any butter, if you-"

"Please" he grabbed her wrist. The knife fell back to the table with a dull clunk.

They stood there a moment, frozen in a bizarre tableau, unwilling to acknowledge it but knowing that they were going to have to

They'd never had to say goodbye before.

Then, both unsure how it happened she was in his arms.

He let her head fall onto his chest and just held her while her shoulder shook with silent sobs that had been held off too long. For a good minute neither of them spoke. Then with a shaking breath she stood back and looked him dead in the eye with a menace only a sister could conjure.

"You better damn well take care of yourself, you hear me?"

"Yeah" it came out a croak. He cleared his throat. "I will"

She scrutinised him a moment longer and gave him a curt nod.

She picked up the table-cloth abandoned on the back of one of the dining chairs and wiped her face.

No more tears.

That just wasn't how they operated.

"Write me. As often as you can, alright?"

"I promise" he agreed solemnly. "And you-" he faltered "Um, you'll take care of yourself right?" he nibbled his lower lip, "You won't… y'know… like when Mum died?"

Harriet crossed her arms sternly.

"Now don't you dare worry about me, John Hamish Watson. I'm going to be perfectly fine. I've got plenty to keep me busy. You worry about yourself. I don't claim to know much about these things but I hear it's not sunshine and roses out there. You make sure you come back in one piece, okay?"

He swallowed.

"I will"

"Right" she looked at the clock, "You don't want to be late now do you?"

John shook his head.

"Well, no point standing on ceremony. What you waiting for? A twenty-five guns salute?"

He chuckled, went to the back door and picked up his bag then slung it over his shoulder.

"See you soon, Harry" he raised a hand in an awkward half wave.

"You better" she pursed her lips sternly, but shot him a small wink.

The rising sun was warm on his face as he walked down the road.


	3. Chapter 2

**30****th**** December 1915, Bakers Street, NW London **

In a small and cluttered flat a gentleman in a dark suit was frowning sternly as another man dressed only in a blue silk dressing gown, dragged some vaguely inhuman notes out of a rather exquisite and antique violin. It was insanely frustrating to the suited gentleman that he knew, only too well, that both the violin and its owner were capable of music that could easily prompt a standing ovation at the Royal Albert Hall and the current screeching was solely for his benefit.

After sustaining the musical torture for about ten minutes with no success in driving the pesky gentleman from his home, Sherlock Holmes stilled his bow, straightened his gown and set the violin down, begrudgingly gracing his brother an ounce of attention in the hope that the giving of it would make him leave sooner rather than later.

"Thank you" the elder Holmes smirked, propping his ever-present umbrella against an armchair of which he then took residence, gesturing for his younger sibling to do the same in the one opposite. Sherlock pointedly ignored the request and the comment.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" he snipped examining the hairs of his bow with hyperbolic interest.

"Does one need a reason to pay a call on his little brother?"

Sherlock scowled at him childishly.

The two Holmes brothers were about as different in appearance as they were similar in intellect and obstinacy. Mycroft was tall, but broad with a fluxing waistline (the subject of which was usually the first to arise when they quarrelled and they quarrelled often). Still well-short of 40, he looked older. His face was lined and his hair-line was receding somewhat though had so far retained its chestnut-brown colour without a single grey. His clothing was prim and proper, just boring and expensive enough to grant him instant access into any number of politician's pockets.

Sherlock was shorter, but maintained an air of stature with his long, willowy, limbs and lean frame, reaching up a somewhat elegant neck to sharp cheekbones and a mop of long dark curls that would not have looked out of place in a renaissance painting or an ancient Greek statue.

"I'd have thought the man who claims to _be_ the British government would have _better_ things to do of late than bother me." With a swish of the bow he gestured to a newspaper discarded on the floor.

"GALLIPOLI LANDINGS" The headline practically screamed in its big, black print.

"Ah yes" Mycroft grimaced. "That paper's rather old."

Sherlock made no reply.

"William seems to think it will be over in a matter of months now. Foolish of course, then again, he's been saying that since 1914… with generals like him I doubt we can expect-"

"Get to the point" Sherlock spat, cutting his brother off mid-sentence.

Mycroft paused. He opened his mouth then shut it again clearing his throat. It took Sherlock a moment to realise his brother was actually embarrassed, any other time he might have savoured the rare moment but there was a discomfort in his brothers grey eyes that set him on edge.

"The conscription"

_Ah. Obvious… _

"Yes?" He sniffed, knowing his feigned ignorance was only serving to make his brother more uncomfortable.

"It's coming" he shifted, suddenly apparently engrossed by his neatly trimmed fingernails "I think it's safe to say you can expect it in the next couple of months"

"I see. And?"

The question hung in the air, both of them knowing the answer.

"I tried-" Mycroft started before Sherlock cut him off again, irritably.

"I told you not to. In fact, I'd rather you hadn't. I don't need you _protecting_ me. I'm not a child."

"Are you telling me you want to go?" Mycroft smirked, despite of himself, "I noticed you never volunteered? I never exactly marked you down as a patriot."

"I'm ambivalent." Sherlock countered stiffly "There's nothing of particular interest going on in London, what with everyone being so… preoccupied."

"This is a little more serious than one of your little _business_ trips." Sherlock did not miss the inflection. "You can't drop this on a whim because you're bored."

"I'm aware."

"Are you? To my knowledge you have never taken orders from anyone. Not father and certainly not me. Not even when you were a child."

"It seems I'll have little choice."

This silenced the argument instantly. The older brother's jaw twitched, not quite able to bring himself to retort.

"I'm not a coward, Mycroft." Sherlock picked up his violin again and turned to look out of the window on to the sun soaked cobbles of Baker Street. There was a heavy sigh from the armchair behind him.

"You're not a soldier either, Sherlock."

He didn't look round. He placed the bow gently on the strings, and steady as ever began dragging the music out of it. Not screeching this time, but not so much a tune either, just long sweeping notes, calculated and precise, hanging low and resinous between the two men.

The conversation was over.

Mycroft picked up his umbrella and calmly walked to the door that led back into the entrance hall.

"Do try and write to Mummy, once you've made your decision." He said one hand resting on the handle. Sherlock just kept playing. Mycroft hesitated a moment, hovering on the threshold.

"I'm sorry." He whispered decisively. He didn't know if Sherlock heard him. The notes merged into a half recognisable tune that lifted and fell, loud and sharp.

The door clicked shut behind him.


	4. Chapter 3

**AN: Thank you all to those who favourited, followed and reviewed, you deserve cake. I hope you continue to enjoy :) **

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**29****th**** October 1914, Ypres, Belgium**

John had liked to think he knew a little something about war. His father had fought in the Boar war and even if the man hadn't exactly been a poster boy for patriotism, at least he served as an example of what a war could drive a man to, and a warning of the trail of damage it left behind.

John had been prepared to go out there, prepared to face death even. Prepared to treat horrific injuries, prepared to be scared and prepared to face pain of all different kinds - physical, emotional… Or at least he thought he had.

The fact was that no one had ever seen war like this.

It was all so new to everyone. Brand new machines that made killing into an industry.

Charging into bullets like lambs to the slaughter and no storybook battle images of flashing swords drawn in the sunlight or knights in armour on noble steeds.

No more of the pomp and ceremony of smart uniforms, epaulets and brass buttons.

A man carried a shovel to dig a hole in which to hide and wore gators that didn't stop the wet mud from leaking into your boots.

Heavy artillery shook a man to his core.

The zip and bang of a shell ripped him from his sleep and left him breathless, exhausted and shaking.

It didn't matter how brave you were, how strong, before he'd even seen a week of action John had witnessed fully grown soldiers reduced to little boys who wanted their mothers and the safety of a land that didn't tremble under their feet.

When the boy writhed under his hands, his face shone in the dim light with sweat and blood and it was real. It was all so real…

His eyes found John's somehow, wide and pleading for him to do something, to take the pain away. John had seen eyes like that before.

Early summer the year he turned eleven and he had hay fever. The memory was so sharp it stung his eyes even in that wood a thousand miles from those fields where they'd played as children. Tom's old nag, that had pulled his carts for years before John was even born, had stumbled on her knobbly, shaking legs and fallen for the last time. Her neck arced, straggly mane tangled in the harness and her legs kicked. He ribs shook and each snort,kicked up the dust in grey clouds. And John, only a child at the time, had stood there paralysed by her big old eyes.

Old Tom's boots clunked as he got out the side of the cart. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion in the memory. But John knew he had turned and fled when he heard the shot ring out that put her out of her misery. He found Harry and buried his wet face in her shoulder until it stopped ringing in his ears. She stroked his hair and told him it was alright, that the horse was old and weak and in pain and it was better than letting her die slow and scared.

In time, John saw that was probably true, but he never forgot.

He looked back into the young lad's eyes and he felt something settle inside him a weird kind of determination. He didn't run this time. His hands worked subconsciously over the injuries, logging and assessing. Words he wasn't even processing tumbled out of his mouth. Comforts, reassurances, empty promises…

It was too late of course, but he knew that. The boy slipped away right there in a muddy ditch in Belgium, slow and scared. And after it was over John's heart raced with guilt and grief and shock.

Yet he laid a gentle hand over the boy's eyes, empty now, closing them for the last time and forced himself to move on.

Next time he would save them.


End file.
